


Recollections

by ancalime8301



Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Community: shkinkmeme, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-04
Updated: 2012-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-30 14:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancalime8301/pseuds/ancalime8301
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson narrates his experience with an unexpected pregnancy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First person Watson POV, canon/Granada-verse.  
> Written for with two prompts in mind:  
> [First](http://shkinkmeme.livejournal.com/9194.html?thread=21640426#t21640426): _More pregnant!Watson please.  
>  With Holmes doing such things as measuring the circumference of Watson's pregnant stomach and concluding that it is far to small and fluffing Watson's pillows....and long suffering Watson finally getting to relax. idk.._  
> [Second](http://shkinkmeme.livejournal.com/9194.html?thread=21205482#t21205482): _Mpreg, preferably Watson as pregnant one, but not too picky. Maybe fluff or comfort because pregnancy isn't great on Watson (or Holmes, if you prefer) ie he has bad morning sickness, swollen ankles, or perhaps always tired or even bad mood swings and how the other deals with them and tries to help cheer them up or soothe them_

Being in a relationship of any sort with Sherlock Holmes is an unusual experience, owing to his many eccentricities and disinclination to observe the so-called normal modes of human interaction. This was especially true in our intimate relationship.

For one thing, we still slept apart, having discovered early on that neither of us was well-rested when sharing his bed--even when all we did in that bed was sleep--and Holmes' erratic hours didn't lend themselves to allowing me adequate rest. The nighttime distance was no indication of the tenor of our relationship, however; Holmes' expressions, his small gestures, his larger actions, and occasionally even his words daily made it clear to me that he cared for me as he did for no other.

As may be guessed by our sleeping arrangements, we only occasionally indulged in sexual congress, and there were periods when those occasions were quite rare. These droughts were often the result of Holmes' workload, but I also bore the blame in some instances. When a case was at fault, Holmes was careful to attend to me as soon as he was able. For my part, my regard was reflected in being ever ready and willing to assist when necessary, staying out of the way when assistance wasn't needed, chronicling our adventures, assuring him of my esteem when he was low, and gently kissing or caressing him when he would accept such attentions.

I relate all this by way of explanation for my failure to recognize the meaning of my initial symptoms, particularly since, though I am one of those males with the necessary anatomy for childbearing, I never experienced regular menstruation and was thus thought to be infertile. In hindsight, the symptoms make perfect sense, but most things are much clearer when looking back.

It began with a bone-deep weariness that leveled me just as effectively as being run over by a cab. At that time, Holmes was engaged with several minor matters that required no leg-work, only brain-work, which was just as well since I found it a monumental effort to venture from bedroom to sitting room. I would have been utterly useless if Holmes had needed me and my revolver, but at least I could still provide a receptive ear.

Despite resting as much as I could, I couldn't seem to shake the lethargy and part of me feared it heralded a relapse of the enteric fever. Even in the midst of his work, Holmes noticed the change and commented upon it one morning at breakfast. "My dear Watson, are you all right?" he asked, his face the very picture of worry.

"Just tired, Holmes," I assured him with a wan smile.

"You have been unusually tired for the last five days," he said, frowning. "Perhaps you ought to consult one of your colleagues."

I sighed heavily. "That's not necessary at this point, I assure you."

He raised his eyebrows and waited.

"Exhaustion is, at present, the only symptom, so no diagnosis can be made as yet."

"Poor Watson," he said, taking my hand and squeezing it gently. "I shall leave the settee at your disposal, then. And you must tell me if there is anything you would have me do for you."

"Of course," I assented, touched by his insistence.

I felt his eyes upon me while I read the paper and poked at my breakfast; when I finally pushed my mostly-untouched plate away, he commented, "Perhaps a lack of appetite should be added to your list of symptoms."

"Only if it persists," I replied as I made my way to the settee and settled upon it. "Tell me what you're working on."

Holmes obligingly described the problem that had arrived in an eloquent letter the day before and the information that should be arriving via telegram shortly, but I fear I lost the thread rather early on, though I continued to bask in the sound of his voice until it was stopped by a knock at the door. The rustle of paper that followed told me he'd received his telegram without having to open my eyes to look--when had my eyes closed?--and then I felt the air stirring nearby and a brief brush of his lips on my forehead.

"I'm not feverish," I mumbled, and he chuckled.

"You cannot fault me for checking."

"No," I said, and his lips pressed themselves to my skin more firmly.

"Sleep, dear Watson. I am going out to conclude this business, but I will return shortly."

I murmured something in response and he left, but not before a blanket settled itself over my lap.

The fatigue lasted the better part of a fortnight, as did my wildly varying appetite--some meals I ate quite like my old self, much to Holmes' relief, while at others the merest nibble was more than enough to satisfy me. Somewhere around the tenth or eleventh day Holmes ran out of cases to occupy him and turned his full attention to fretting about me. When I made it clear that there was nothing I needed save quiet and rest, he serenaded me on the violin. We ended that evening in his bed, his arms wrapped around me and my head on his shoulder.

I woke the next morning feeling more awake than I had in some time. Holmes, of course, teased me that I had simply been pining for his attentions, and I laughingly agreed that may have been part of it. Even so, I sometimes found him watching me anxiously, and I was hard-pressed to convince him that I was, truly, feeling better. It wasn't until I accompanied him to an afternoon concert and an early dinner out that he seemed to accept I was on the mend. This was soon followed by him leaving the rooms for his rounds of the city, checking in with those various individuals that served as his eyes and ears in each area of London. This activity often kept him out for a full day or more.

The nausea began the evening he was away. I'd had a fairly substantial dinner--Mrs. Hudson seemed determined to induce me to make up for my irregular intake over the previous weeks--and was placidly smoking my pipe and perusing the evening papers when I became aware of a vague uneasiness in my stomach. It felt nearly like my meal had settled in one large lump and my stomach was churning in an attempt to budge it.

I endeavored to continue reading, but the discomfort grew and the tobacco in my pipe began to taste foul, adding to the nausea. I extinguished my pipe and finished the paper; by then the discomfort was overwhelming and I looked to my medical bag for rescue.

Nothing I took was equal to the task. I languished in the unsettled balance between feeling ill enough that vomiting would be welcome--as it might rid me of the source of the vexation--but not feeling ill enough to actually do so without taking something to produce that effect, which I was unwilling to do. I spent several miserable hours on Holmes' bed--being closer at hand than my own--before the nausea faded enough for me to sleep.

Morning came all too soon but provided the consolation of a quiescent stomach. I took no chances and had Mrs. Hudson bring me only the blandest foods; my stomach did not complain for the duration of the day, so I thought my approach was the right one.

Holmes returned around teatime with a cheerful air and his pipe clenched between his teeth. He greeted me pleasantly, but his words to me were lost in a sudden wave of illness brought on by the smell of his tobacco. I rushed past him to the bathroom, reaching it just in time to be sick. Holmes hovered anxiously over me at first, awkwardly patting my back while I heaved, then retreated and bellowed for Mrs. Hudson.

I didn't try to catch their murmured conversation, knowing full well that Holmes was interrogating her about my condition while he was away. By the time Holmes returned to my side, I'd flushed away the evidence, had a drink of water, and was feeling wrung out but mostly back to normal. Or at least, I was until I caught another whiff of Holmes' pipe smoke and the nausea began anew.

He was quite perplexed by me snatching his pipe and knocking the embers into the toilet and flushing them away, staring at me as if I had lost my reason. "The smell," I said once I was certain that opening my mouth would not lead to any unseemly events.

Holmes took his pipe from me, bewildered. "It is the same tobacco I have used throughout our acquaintance," he said.

I could not explain it, only insist that I had been just fine before his return--which Mrs. Hudson could corroborate--and he settled into his armchair to consider the matter. Fortunately his cigarettes did not produce a stomach-offending odor, so he could ponder with the aid of some form of tobacco without forcing me to vacate the premises. If he drew any conclusions, he did not share them; instead, after dinner he proposed a leisurely stroll, to which I heartily agreed.

The nausea lingered, but only periodically--and unpredictably--reared its head. Most of the time it was not severe enough to cause the voiding of my stomach contents, which enabled me to hide its continuance from Holmes for a while. He worried about me too much already, I could see it in the furrows in his brow, and I did not want to be a distraction. Distractions could be deadly in his work.

Despite my best efforts, though, he found out one morning when he surprised me in the bathroom. It was a bad morning, the worst episode I'd had since the nonsense had begun more than a month prior, and he walked in to find me hunched over the toilet where I had already spent several miserable hours. He helped me stand and hobble to his bed; his gentle ministrations to my stiff back and legs afterward included him coaxing me to speak of the trouble until I confessed all.

His answer was firm and unwavering. "We must take you to a doctor, Watson." He pressed a kiss to my temple as he said it, as if to assure me that his concern was heartfelt.

I knew that full well already, but I am not one to shun any demonstrative actions from him. And I had to concede he was correct; I may have disagreed were it not for that morning, but now there was no doubt that something had to be done. "I will send a telegram to Dr. Sands." I'd had a brief acquaintance with Sands during our school years--a friend-of-a-friend sort of situation--and went to see him as a patient on one prior occasion.

In the end, it was Holmes who wrote the telegram that I dictated, and Holmes who took it to be dispatched. A reply arrived at the lunch hour, setting the appointment at ten o'clock the following morning.

I spent the intervening hours with my nerves tied in knots. Realistically I knew that there were a number of possible innocuous explanations for my recent experiences--though the complete absence of fever was a bit of a puzzle--but I was not in an emotional state to be reasonable, which was, in itself, another indication that I was not myself. Holmes, bless him, tried to distract me from my anxiety several ways, culminating in physical advances that I rebuffed. I did, however, accept his invitation to share his bed for the night, and he wound himself around me as if to protect me from the worries that beset me. I don't think either of us slept much.

The less said about that morning the better, sufficing only to say that I shut myself in the bathroom for the period immediately prior to departing, too short-tempered to put up with Holmes' well-meaning hovering. Holmes insisted upon accompanying me, and I am convinced I would not have had the courage to approach the building if not for his presence at my side. I in turn insisted that he wait for me in the doctor's sitting room; he was not pleased but conceded without argument.

Dr. Sands was ever the professional and listened attentively as I explained what had brought me to him. His examination was thorough and he chatted kindly with me as he worked. He fell silent at one point, looking off to one side as he concentrated on what he could feel in my abdomen. Then he smiled.

I left the room in a daze, overwhelmed. Holmes bolted to his feet as soon as he caught sight of me, his gaze studying me for a moment before he paled a shade; whatever he'd seen in my face had led him to a negative conclusion. "Not here," I said, and led the way to the door.

I spent the cab ride in a whirl of inner debate. We had not discussed this, hadn't realized there was even the remotest possibility, so what was Holmes going to think when I told him? Should I tell him? Well, of course, I must tell him. But would he be pleased or furious? I couldn't even begin to guess.

No words were spoken between us until we had ascended to our rooms. As soon as the sitting room door was shut behind us, Holmes demanded, "Well?"

I looked up at him and could find no words sufficient to tell him our lives were about to change entirely.

"If you cannot tell me, I shall ask you questions," Holmes said finally. "Will you recover?"

Trust Holmes to figure out a way to worm it out of me! "In time, yes."

Relief was etched on his face at my words. He took a deep breath. "Is it serious?"

I floundered. There were many possible answers. "Yes and no," I said slowly.

"Watson!" Holmes cried out in anguish and exasperation at the ambiguity. "Out with it, man!"

"I'm pregnant," I blurted before I could think better of it.

His eyes widened and he took a slight step back in shock. "But I thought-- you said--"

"Evidently the doctors of my youth were mistaken," I said wearily, and started to turn away.

Holmes grabbed my shoulders and held me in place. His keen eyes searched my face, then dropped to my midsection, then returned to my face. "Are you certain?"

"Sands is thorough and exacting, and he was quite certain."

His hands rubbed up and down my upper arms for a moment, then slid over my shoulders up to my face while he leaned in and kissed me softly. "My Watson is going to have a little Watson," he said, sounding as dazed as I felt.

"A little Holmes," I corrected with a small smile.

"But this is wonderful! By the look of your face earlier, I would have thought it was something terrible."

"You truly don't mind? We never talked about having a child," I said uncertainly.

"Mind? Why should I mind? I am the cause of it; to object afterward would be cruel to you."

I felt, in truth, a little faint as I tried to comprehend the joy in Holmes' countenance and his unhesitating, even eager, acceptance of the news.

As ever, he sensed my train of thought without a single word spoken. "Ah, Watson," he said, folding me into an embrace that I returned with something akin to desperation. "You need not fret on my account. I am quite pleased by this wonderful news. I will insist that you tell me all you know about what we can anticipate in the coming months, but not just now."

He kissed me insistently, his hands stroking along my back and pulling me even closer to him. I returned his kiss, my body responding to his caress in a way it couldn't the night before.

We had time only to inflame our passions before Mrs. Hudson knocked and brought in our luncheon. Holmes quickly stepped away from me before the door opened--Mrs. Hudson could not help but be aware of our relationship, but we tried to keep it discreet--and we both surreptitiously straightened our clothing as she entered.

It was for naught for, after one glance at us, her lips pressed together in a suppressed smile. "It is good to see you feeling better, Doctor," she said mildly. "I hope to see an improvement in your appetite, as well."

"I'll see that he eats enough," Holmes said quickly.

"I'm afraid that doesn't mean much coming from you, Mr. Holmes," she said as she left.

I chuckled. "You do have a questionable reputation concerning food, Holmes."

"For myself, yes. You are another matter. You must recover the weight you have lost of late."

"I know," I said, seating myself. "But not all at once. And you yourself must eat sufficiently if you wish to have any influence."

"Very well," Holmes said, rising to the challenge as I knew he would.

I was quite famished, and between us we made quick work of the meal. As soon as we were finished, Holmes took me by the hand and led me to his bedroom, where we closeted ourselves for much of the afternoon. Not all of the time was devoted to carnal pleasures, though that was certainly part of our activities. The rest was spent considering all the things we needed to do or discuss before the arrival of our child some six months hence. Holmes even produced pen and paper and started a list--names, clothing, a cradle--so we would not forget.

Then Holmes surprised me by pulling out a tape measure and insisting that he measure my circumference. "We must have a method to track your progress, since we do not own a scale," he said.

I could not help but laugh at his serious air and attempt at being scientific while perched naked on the bed next to me. He pouted until I agreed to let him measure me. He pulled out a new sheet of paper and demanded to know my current weight as measured by Dr. Sands, which I provided and he recorded, then he had me stand with the tape measure around my middle. We debated for a few moments about where was best to measure, so Holmes settled the question by recording the measurements at three different points.

The numbers stood out starkly on the paper and we both sat in silent thought for a while. I leaned over and kissed his cheek. "How often will you insist upon this?"

"Weekly should be sufficient for adequate monitoring."

And that is precisely what we did. Once a week I bared my midsection for measurement; when cases permitted, Holmes even insisted that it be in the afternoon so the data points were collected under comparable conditions. I thought it absurd to belabor the point, but Holmes was nothing if not exacting. I quickly came to enjoy the ritual as much as Holmes did; seeing the numbers inch slowly but steadily up was thrilling and provided objective proof that I wasn't just imagining that my trousers were growing snug.

The first few weeks required some adjustment for both of us. I still looked the same outwardly, and felt better than I had, so I wished to continue assisting Holmes in his work, but seemingly overnight he had become overly solicitous toward me, hovering protectively over my every move, watching every bite I ate, and generally making a nuisance of himself. Accompanying him was absolutely forbidden despite my arguments that there was absolutely no danger in visiting our clients and that regular moderate exercise was recommended at this stage. Even when I reminded him that I possess a gun and know how to use it, he remained unmoved.

Inspector Lestrade unwittingly aided my cause. He paid us a visit two weeks after we found out about my pregnancy and invited Holmes to view a crime scene. When they rose from their seats and I did not, Lestrade inquired, "Are you coming, Doctor?"

"Yes, of course," I answered before Holmes could speak, and I ignored the peeved look Holmes sent my way behind the Inspector's back.

It was just as well that I tagged along, for I was able to make some suggestions that put a gleam into Holmes' eye as he fitted the pieces together in his mind. By the time we returned home, Holmes seemed to accept that I was still just as useful despite my altered state, so our discussion centered not around whether I should go with him but when I should cease. It was decided that I should no longer accompany him when my condition was visibly evident to an extent that my jacket or overcoat could not conceal it, but I could cease at any point prior to that as well, like if the side effects of the pregnancy hindered my activities.

Blessedly free of side effects at that point, I did not think it likely that I would need to withdraw on account of them. The only pressing issue was how long my wardrobe could accommodate my expanding middle, for I had recovered the weight I'd lost and my girth was beginning to increase. Dr. Sands was pleased with my progress when I went to see him a month after that first visit, and encouraged me to continue in the same manner.

It was about this time that the child made its presence known in the form of a distinctive swelling. Until then, the changes to my abdomen were slight enough that they could be attributed merely to overindulgence, but the location and character of this definite lump were quite unmistakable. Once it appeared, it seemed to grow almost daily; that is an exaggeration, of course, but the way my clothes fit seemed to change every day and my top trouser buttons soon became superfluous. Even so, when I was fully clothed it was only discernable if a person knew what to look for, and only Holmes ever looked at me with such intensity.

Holmes displayed a consuming fascination with my body and the child within it; he often curled himself around me and stroked my stomach. In turn, my body thirsted for his touch, his embrace. I spent more time in his bed than in my own during those idyllic weeks when I felt well and strong and craved him.

We often went out--to eat, to concerts, to shop for clothes and other items for the child, for long walks in the park--in those days. When Holmes had a case that did not require my assistance, it was not uncommon for him to make up for his absence by taking me to Simpson's, which often ended with us hurrying home and shedding our clothing as soon as the door was closed and locked. We spent a good deal of time in the nude, and while Holmes enjoyed my altered shape, I relished his softened angles, for he had put on a bit of weight as I did.

Holmes accompanied me on my third visit to Dr. Sands, and this time I invited him into the consultation room with me. Having resigned himself to wait outside again, he was gratified by my trust in him and regarded me with that soft look that he used to convey his love when words of affection were unwise.

Sands greeted him courteously, shaking his hand as he congratulated him. The brief examination followed; Holmes paid keen attention to the doctor's hands as they palpated my abdomen.

"You're halfway there, John, and everything seems to be developing as it should," Sands said with evident satisfaction. "I would suggest that you find a midwife or doctor specializing in childbirth for the remainder of your term. I can recommend several if you wish."

"Halfway? How do you determine that?" Holmes questioned.

"The top edge of the womb has reached his navel," Sands said. "Would you like to feel? Put your hand here; yes, like that."

Holmes' fine fingers pressed my skin searchingly though his eyes were on my face; I flushed and desperately tried to think of something else so my body would not respond to his touch. Holmes turned away to ask Sands a question about size and the fact that I was only barely beginning to show.

"Everyone is different," Sands replied. "From this point forward it is more likely that the growth of the child will result in visible growth of the abdomen, but thus far John's weight gain has been acceptable."

Holmes took his hands away and inquired about recommendations for a specialist. I rose and began refastening my clothing while Sands handed Holmes several practitioners' cards. "Here are three midwives and two doctors; I will confess the top one is my niece. She has a number of commendation letters from prominent individuals, both male and female. Oh, and John, I see you are still able to wear your usual clothing, but when the time comes that you cannot, I suggest you try Smithson's."

"I have an appointment there this afternoon," I confirmed. Though it was true my usual clothing was still functional, it simply was not comfortable, especially my trousers.

"Splendid. They do excellent work, and have some very innovative methods."

We took our leave and stopped at a nearby cafe for a light lunch. Partway through the meal, Holmes directed my attention to a pair of men at a nearby table. I did not understand why they should be of interest until they rose and I saw that one of them was obviously with child, and likely near the end of his term. While it is true that a man can sometimes be thought fat rather than pregnant, the way he moved as if unaccustomed to his bulk and the way his companion helped him with a gentle hand to the elbow made his condition evident.

Holmes and I watched them leave, then Holmes murmured in my ear, "That will be you before long." My face heated and one hand strayed to my stomach as I considered this. I found the idea did not repulse me despite the occasional difficulty I had with accepting the changes to my body. Knowing that the day would soon come when I could not hide the fact that I bore Holmes' child was a source of pride.

Smithson's shop had only one other customer when we entered. I needed to use the facilities as soon as we arrived, but was able to rejoin Holmes before the time of my appointment arrived. The tailor ushered us into a curtained alcove for privacy, then quickly and efficiently took my measurements and disappeared to retrieve a few items he thought would be of particular interest.

Dr. Sands' comment about the innovative methods was explained when the tailor held up an example pair of the trousers the shop recommended: the front was cut lower than the back to allow room for the abdomen without any undue constricting when seated. "It is, of course, most useful for those such as yourself, but some of our clientele are simply overweight and carry much of the excess in front," the tailor cheerfully explained.

"Perhaps Mycroft would be interested in a pair," Holmes muttered, and I tried unsuccessfully not to laugh.

They also had developed waistcoats with an extra panel at the side seam so merely unbuttoning a button would add several inches of fabric on each side. "This method is less noticeable than suddenly having a completely new wardrobe if you wish to conceal the pregnancy, though of course the button on the side is visible if you aren't wearing a jacket."

Holmes was fascinated by their unique items, though I confess my temper quickly grew short as I became tired. The tailor noticed my discomfort and apologized profusely as he retrieved a stool for me to sit on. Holmes reassured me with a squeeze of my shoulder and rapidly drew our visit to a close, checking over the tailor's notes about the things I wanted--primarily trousers, though we also included a jacket, waistcoat, and two shirts, all with added inches in the abdomen--and negotiating on one or two points.

When we finally left, Holmes hailed a cab. Once we were inside, he said, "I apologize, Watson. I did not realize you were growing weary."

"It's all right. It took me a bit by surprise as well."

"Are you feeling up to an outing this evening, or shall I reschedule?"

"An outing? What outing? You haven't mentioned it before."

"Dinner with Mycroft. I did not think you would mind."

"Ah. No, I don't mind, and I think I can manage sitting at a table and eating," I said with a smile as the cab pulled up to our door.

Holmes laughed. "Yes, it will be taxing only for your stomach."

I ended up dozing off in my chair briefly before we left for dinner at the Diogenes. My lingering drowsiness was banished by the air whipped against our faces as we rode in the hansom cab. Mycroft met us in the Strangers Room; he took one look at us, particularly at me, then beamed as he held out his hand first to me, then his brother. "Congratulations."

I turned to Holmes. "Do I correctly infer that you hadn't told your brother?"

"Yes, you are correct," Holmes confirmed with a smile.

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised you could tell with a look," I said, now addressing Holmes' brother.

"Yes, quite," Mycroft said vaguely, leading us to the dining room.

Our conversation included more than the coming arrival of the child, though it was frequently revisited whenever the topic strayed elsewhere. The dinner was a good one and I ate altogether too much, as I often did when we dined with Mycroft. By the time Holmes and I returned home, I was quite ready to turn in and Holmes did not try to dissuade me.

 

I continued assisting Holmes for a month after the third visit to Dr. Sands, though it was beginning to become more difficult for me to do so. I am certain that none of the Yarders had an inkling about my condition, but the physical aspects of carrying a child were becoming intrusive, as I tired more quickly than was my wont--especially if we did any amount of walking--and a persistent ache developed in my hips and lower back. I had to eat every few hours, for I could not manage the amount of a normal meal in one sitting without a terrible stomachache afterward, which did not adapt well to being out and about. Neither did needing to use the toilet almost as frequently, thanks to the extra weight pressing down on my bladder.

In addition, I was periodically startled by a strange sensation in my abdomen that I eventually determined were the first flutters of movement by the child. They always distracted me when they occurred, which reflected poorly on me and Holmes when I lost the thread of the conversation while a client was present. On a few occasions, I was almost certain that one or two of our clients looked at me with understanding in their eyes; I always pulled my jacket more closely about me, but my abdomen was certainly growing and it was possible that they perceived what Lestrade did not.

Halfway through the month I paid a visit to Dr. Sands' niece, just to get acquainted and determine if she would be an acceptable midwife. Mrs. Louise Holloway was a formidable woman, knowledgeable in her field and firm in her handling of her patients. We got on quite well though she disapproved of me continuing to assist Holmes at this stage. "Your attention needs to be on caring for yourself and preparing for the arrival of your baby," she said bluntly. "You need to be eating more, staying off your feet when possible, and avoiding any undue stress. I do not doubt that you are useful to him, but you need to consider the needs of his child."

Her words weighed on my mind for days afterward, though I resisted the notion of staying home while Holmes went out on cases. Those cases were frequently as much my work as they were Holmes'; they were certainly the only really useful thing I could do to earn my keep. Being cooped up in the rooms by myself was not a pleasant prospect.

I took Holmes to meet Mrs. Holloway two weeks after my initial consultation with her. She treated him with some disdain until he produced the document we had been using to track my progress. This attention to my welfare appeased her, especially when he repeated his concern--previously expressed to Dr. Sands--that I was not showing as much as he might have expected.

She thought quite highly of him after that. The rest of the appointment consisted of her instructing me on the things I ought to be doing and scolding me for perceived faults in my care of myself and Holmes silently agreeing with her. Foremost amongst her concerns was my activities--"strenuous exertions" in her words--with Holmes, though to be quite frank I had not been involved in so much as a footchase for the duration of the time that I knew I was pregnant. I did not try to argue.

When we returned home, I sank onto the settee with a deep sigh and Holmes perched sideways next to me, his hand reaching out to stroke my back. I turned to give him better access and he rubbed my back with both hands as he said gently, "What troubles you, Watson?"

"I - It's just - I don't know," I said stutteringly. "She seems to think I am being reckless, and you agree with her. I wish you would trust me to know when assisting you becomes more than I can handle."

Holmes did not respond at first, though his fine hands continued their soothing motions. "I worry about you, Watson," he said finally. "To have something happen to you - " he broke off and did not finish the thought.

"I understand, but I don't want to be stuck here alone any longer than I have to be. Your cases are my work, too, and I don't know what I will do with myself when I don't have that anymore."

I heard Holmes shift behind me, inching closer until he could wrap his arms around me and lean into me. "My dear Watson, I apologize. I never meant for you to think I would have you remain here while I carry on as usual."

I didn't understand, but he didn't explain himself. "What are you saying?" I demanded.

"Whenever you can no longer accompany me, I will cease to accept cases that require any amount of legwork."

I could not believe he was promising to coop himself up in our rooms for months on end. "I can't ask that of you," I protested.

"You aren't asking. I'm stating a fact." He pressed a light kiss just behind my ear.

"But you'll be bored."

He chuckled. "Let me worry about that."

"Let me rephrase it, then: you will drive me to distraction when you have no work."

"I will do my best not to disturb you excessively," he promised.

I snorted. "By whose definition, yours or mine?" I felt a fluttering in my stomach, so I laid my hands on Holmes' and moved them to the lump in my abdomen. "Can you feel that?" I murmured.

He leaned closer, then went absolutely still, hardly even breathing. Then his right hand twitched and he slowly exhaled. "I think I felt it," he said softly, then added, "Things like this are why I wish to be here with you."

"I understand," I said. "But I will not be hurt if you leave on occasion. I may even encourage it."

His thumb was rubbing circles on my stomach. "If you insist."

"For both our sakes, I do."


	2. Chapter 2

Our negotiation was well-timed. Two days later, Lestrade had a case for Holmes, so we went with him to the scene of the crime. I was the last to dismount from the carriage, and as I did so, a severe spell of dizziness overtook me. I had suffered from a few dizzy spells before, usually upon rising from bed, but only enough to force me to pause a moment while I regained my equilibrium.

This one nearly stole my awareness completely and I must have stumbled, for when I came to myself, Holmes was supporting me with an arm across my chest. He began to back away as soon as I straightened under my own power, and I realized that Lestrade was watching us. His eyes were on me, but not on my face, and I quickly straightened my clothing. In my stumble and Holmes catching me, Lestrade must have seen some sign, for he spoke in a tone of surprise, "Doctor, you are - "

" - quite all right, thank you," I said hurriedly, nodding to Holmes that he should carry on.

"Yes, of course," Lestrade said, his eyes glancing once more at me before he led Holmes and I to our destination.

No more was said about it until Holmes was finished and told Lestrade several details about the man responsible for the crime. Lestrade sent his men away, but remained with us until we were alone in the room. "I must say, I never thought you two were the family type," he commented quietly. "I won't speak a word of it if that's what you prefer."

"It is," Holmes confirmed.

"All right, then. My congratulations to you, and do let me know if I should stop coming by for a while."

"We shall."

"Thank you, Lestrade," I said, and he nodded once and left.

When we were safely stowed in a cab, Holmes asked anxiously, "Watson, are you certain you - "

"Yes," I said firmly. "I merely stood up too fast." I waited for him to insinuate that it was time for us to cease taking cases, but he said nothing, just looked at me with that concerned expression he only ever used on me.

But I was having doubts about how much longer I should act as if nothing had changed, and doubting myself for having such doubts. On the one hand, I was still reasonably fit; the side effects I experienced were, for the most part, relatively mild. On the other hand, another stumble like the one I'd just had could prove detrimental to myself and the child, for there was no guarantee that Holmes would always be within arm's reach (though I knew he would endeavor to be if he thought it would put me at ease).

I wrestled with my indecision for some time without arriving at a conclusion. Holmes spent that time tinkering with chemicals and staring out the window, deep in thought; he barely acknowledged it when I bade him good-night. I trudged up the stairs wearily, the ache in my back more intense than usual--no doubt from my near-fall--and the child restless within me. It was a long time before I managed to fall asleep.

I woke with a terrible headache pounding in my skull. Trying to move transformed the pounding into a stabbing centered at my right temple and I groaned. It had been quite some time since I'd suffered a migraine; evidently my reprieve had ended.

It took me quite a bit longer than usual to dress in shirt, trousers, and dressing gown, and sloppily see to my toilet--I did not even try to shave--and I shuffled down the stairs with my eyes squinted until they were nearly closed but still the light was too bright.

I was assaulted with food smells when I opened the sitting room door and my stomach churned alarmingly. I paused in the doorway until I was certain that I would not succumb to the nausea, but Holmes did not look up from the newspaper until I closed the door behind me. His initial brief glance turned into a searching gaze as he lowered the paper and hurried over to me. "Good heavens, Watson, you look terrible," he said, taking my arm and leading me to the settee.

"Headache," I mumbled as he urged me to sit down.

One of his hands moved to my forehead, and I leaned gratefully into its coolness, closing my eyes. "Have you taken anything?" he asked quietly.

I started to shake my head before I thought better of it. "Won't help," I said, sighing.

"Ah, one of those," he said sympathetically. He moved away, then I heard the blinds being drawn.

When he didn't return immediately, I opened my eyes; closing the blinds helped immensely.

Holmes came back with a plate of toast and a cup of tea. "Do you think you can manage this?"

"I have to," I said, accepting them. I really did not feel like eating, but the nausea would be worse if I didn't, I knew that all too well.

While I nibbled the toast and sipped the tea, Holmes covered the food, then left the room briefly. He returned with Mrs. Hudson in tow and they cleared the table with a minimum of noise.

My stomach felt marginally better after the tea and toast, though I did not feel equal to the task of rising and returning the dishes to the table. I held them in my lap, careful to keep them from knocking together, and rested my head against the back of the settee.

Gentle hands took the plate and cup from me, and I flicked my eyes from the their listless stare at the ceiling to watch Holmes move away and return. "You truly won't take anything?" he asked quietly, standing where I could see him without moving my head.

"Not yet," I said, conceding that the time may yet come to allow myself morphine.

A tap on the door drew him away; Holmes muttered an imprecation then spoke to Mrs. Hudson in a low tone before the door closed again. The sound of a cloth being wrung out into a basin, then a damp cloth was settled over my forehead and eyes.

Holmes laid a hand on my cheek and said softly, "I must leave you for a while to set Lestrade straight on the case from yesterday. I will return as soon as I may. Call on Mrs. Hudson if you need anything."

I put my hand over his. "I will, thank you."

He took my hand and squeezed it. "You are free to use my bed if lying down will help."

I pressed his hand beteen both of mine. "I will be all right," I assured him. He withdrew and I heard him in his bedroom briefly before his steps receded down the stairs.

Holmes had been gone for a short time when the ticking of the mantelpiece clock became more than I could endure in my sensitised state. Even with this motivation, it took at least five minutes to persuade myself into motion. The basin of water was still on the table so I rewetted the cloth on my way to the bedroom. Holmes had closed the blinds and turned back the covers; I sank gratefully onto the bed after leaving the door open a crack so Holmes would know where I had gone. I settled onto my side, laid the cloth on the throbbing side of my face, and tried not to think about how much my head hurt.

I drifted into a state where I did not sleep but I was not fully aware of my surroundings. Thus I did not notice Holmes had returned until the sound of his muted violin drifted through the now-closed door. Sometimes his playing helped, distracting me from the pain without making it worse; this was not one of those times.

"Holmes," I called as loudly as I dared.

The music stopped immediately and Holmes appeared in the doorway, instrument and bow in hand. "No?" he asked.

"Not today," I said, grateful for his understanding.

A few minutes later, he perched sans violin on the edge of the bed and gently kneaded my nape and neck. "Is there anything I can do?"

"No," I sighed.

He took the dry cloth and kissed my forehead. "It's nearly lunchtime, can you manage something?"

"I can try," I said reluctantly.

By the time Holmes returned with my food, I was sitting up in bed, my back braced against the headboard. More toast and a mug of broth; I murmured my thanks and waved Holmes off when he offered to stay with me while I tried to eat.

I could only force down the toast. The broth tasted heavenly, and I knew I needed the fluids, but it made my stomach churn unpleasantly and I was not willing to take the chance of having more.

When Holmes returned he didn't comment on my lack of success with the meal, he only sat next to me and slid his arm around my back, tugging me until I leaned against him. "Would a bath help?"

"I don't know," I said miserably, pressing my cheek into his shoulder. We sat in silence for a while, Holmes stroking my side while I tried to decide if the things I smelled in Holmes' dressing gown were going to offend my stomach or not. When the nausea didn't worsen, I moved on to considering the bath. It was difficult to think. "It wouldn't hurt to try, I suppose," I said finally.

Holmes remained with me for several minutes more before leaving to start the bath. It took him a while to return, in which time I rose and ventured into the sitting room to put the dishes on the table. Moving around was a nice change from the last several hours of immobile agony, but it did no favors for the migraine.

I stepped out into the hallway just as Holmes emerged from the bathroom; he escorted me into the warm, steamy room and began to undress me. I protested that I was not an invalid, but he insisted that I allow him this gesture. He also insisted on helping me into the tub, and I did not object.

The warmth of the water felt good against my skin, as did Holmes' hands when they massaged my neck and shoulders. For many long minutes the only sounds were our breathing and the gentle slosh of water against the edges of the tub. Then I sighed, and Holmes' hands stopped moving and simply cradled my head while the rest of me limply sank below the water.

"Would you like a wash?" Holmes asked when the water grew noticeably cooler.

"No, thank you," I said. "I don't want to risk the smell."

"Of course."

He'd known that the scent may make things worse, of course, it was why he'd asked. His fingers gently carded through my hair as we fell silent again.

At length he spoke again. "You should get out before the cold water makes you stiff," he said mildly.

"Yes, I should," I conceded, stirring myself enough to sit up under my own power. He rose and retrieved a towel, draping it over his arm. I stood, shivering as I emerged from the water, and Holmes enveloped me in the towel and helped me step free of the tub.

While I held the towel around myself, Holmes efficiently dried my limbs with a second towel. Then he moved on to my chest, carefully avoiding my overly sensitive nipples, and down to my stomach, where he paused, his fingers darting out to caress the bump there. He kissed the corner of my mouth before he resumed drying me off.

Holmes brought me a nightshirt that he helped me put on, then he stood close, embracing me from behind and rocking us slightly. "Feel any better?" he asked.

"I don't know," I had to admit.

So he put me back to bed and brought a new cloth for my face and sat on the floor holding my hand for quite some time. I think I dozed off briefly, for I roused from a period of insensibility with a renewed pounding in my head. I might have groaned, I'm not certain, but Holmes was there in an instant, refreshing the cloth on my brow and stroking my cheek soothingly.

I batted away his hand. "Holmes, please," I said hoarsely, hoping he would understand that my very skin was afire with overwhelming sensation and I could not bear to be touched. Had I the presence of mind to do so, I would have stripped off my nightshirt to cease its unpleasant rubbing against my skin. "In my bag-"

He stopped me from speaking further with a brief touch to my lips. "The usual?"

"Yes," I whispered, almost ashamed even in the midst of my agony that I was resorting to this.

I did not need to watch him administer the shot of morphine to know that he did it expertly. After a few minutes, I fancied I could feel it sweep through my body, dousing the fire in my skin and muffling the pain in my head enough that I could finally truly rest.

I slept then, and continued blissfully unaware through the night and into the morning. When I woke the pain had receded to a dull pressure within my skull; if past experience served, it would continue thus for up to a few days before I would finally be free of it. But the improvement was vast in comparison, and I spent a moment or five basking in the fact that I could open my eyes and think about breakfast without suffering mightily for it.

When I finally stirred myself, I checked my arm; Holmes had given me a second dose at some point during the night. I did not remember it, but that was typical, and he would not have done so had I not needed it.

I shifted in preparation to sit up and saw the top of Holmes' head leaning against the edge of the mattress. The foolish man was sitting on the floor against the wall next to the bed, sound asleep. I reached over and stroked his stubbled cheek and almost immediately he sat fully upright, though it took slightly longer for his now-open eyes to show full awareness. "You could have fetched a chair," I remonstrated with some amusement.

"I was not certain I could bring one in without excessive noise," he said, catching my hand and bringing it to his lips. "Can you manage some breakfast?"

"Yes, I think so, and I shall make the attempt at the table."

I was able to rise under my own power and, after a reasonable breakfast, changed clothes and shaved and otherwise tended to those things that made me feel much more like myself afterward.

True to past experiences, I was troubled with the lingering traces of my migraine for three days. Though I was able to resume many normal activities, I remained susceptible to light so Holmes and I delayed our daily strolls to dusk when the lingering sunlight would not cause a relapse.

It was during our stroll on the evening of the third day that I finally broached a subject I had not yet had the courage to speak of. "Have you told Lestrade that we will be unavailable for cases?" I had been wondering, from the absence of the detective inspector or his telegrams over the last few days, but it was entirely possible that there simply wasn't anything worthy of Holmes' attention.

"Not yet, but the telegram is ready to be sent," Holmes admitted.

"Ah." I fell silent and he did not press me. Our steps turned back toward Baker Street before I spoke again. "I think it time for us to turn our attention to . . . other things," I said evasively, mindful of the other pedestrians we passed.

"Of course," Holmes murmured, patting the arm that was linked through his. "I will send the telegram in the morning."

Holmes insisted that I share his bed that night, and as we lay spooned in the darkness, he spoke against my nape. "What would you say to going on holiday?"

"Holiday?" I echoed stupidly. "But where? Why?"

"We need to discuss many things before . . . the happy event," Holmes said, a hand gently cupping my abdomen. "I thought it would be easier to do if we had none of the usual distractions."

I considered the few times I had attempted to bring up issues like names for the child, only to be interrupted by one thing or another. "Like clients."

"Yes. It does not matter where; I thought a hotel in Brighton might be satisfactory. It is the off-season so it wouldn't be crowded, but there is still entertainment to be had should we desire it."

His lips against my neck were quite distracting, but I will admit the idea had some appeal. "How long would we be away?"

"A fortnight, I should think, and longer if we desire it."

"But I'm supposed to see Mrs. Holloway every two weeks."

"She gives the venture her blessing so long as you see her immediately upon our return."

I could not help but laugh. "I should have known you would have seen to everything before bringing it up. When do we leave?"

I felt Holmes smile against my skin. "Tomorrow afternoon."

 

We remained in Brighton for three weeks. Many of our discussions occurred whilst we were naked and in the contented haze that followed enthusiastic coupling; even so, we came to an agreement on several points concerning the child and its care and raising in light of Holmes' occupation and the threats it could pose to our family.

Our family. The phrase still warms my heart and I expect it shall do so for a long time to come.

Holmes was most conscientious about ensuring I had my meals, and I returned to London half a stone heavier and with three inches added to my waistline as the child thrived. We paid a visit to Mrs. Holloway the day after our return, and she was pleased. She still thought I was a pound or two behind where I ought to be, but that was her only critique and I had twelve weeks or so remaining in which to make up the difference.

Whereas Brighton was an idyllic time for both Holmes and I, the month or so following our return was a difficult one for me. I knew that the child would become steadily larger and interfere more and more with my body's functions and activities, but that knowledge did not prepare me for the experience itself.

Nearly overnight the bulge in my abdomen grew to a point that it began to get in the way as I sat at the table or leaned over to retrieve something I'd dropped. The added mass in front affected my balance and my lower back and hips seemed always to be in pain. The child moved often within me; a joyful thing, to be sure, and Holmes loved to wrap his arms around me and splay his hands out on my stomach to feel the child kick, but it could be exceedingly uncomfortable.

By the time I had ten weeks remaining, I was sleeping poorly and I wearied easily. I felt large, awkward, and ungainly and knowing that the child would grow still larger did not help. When Holmes took his weekly measurements, I looked away so I would not have to know just how large I'd become. I fear I grew quite irritable in my discomfort and often snapped at Holmes despite the fact that he did everything he could think of to make me more comfortable.

When I sniped about there being too many stairs, he offered me the use of his bedroom for the duration so I would not have to climb the extra set to go to bed. When I complained about my back, he rubbed it for me or drew me a hot bath. When I was tired and cranky from not sleeping well due to the child's incessant kicking or just not finding a comfortable position, he played the violin for me while I napped. When I fretted about my ungainly size and the appearance of angry red lines on my abdomen, he kissed and licked each of the stretch-marks and caressed me while murmuring in my ear how much he loved me, loved our child, how the sight of me heavy with our child was a ceaseless pleasure even as he longed to ease my discomforts.

So while there are some who find pregnancy agreeable, I am not one of them. My consolation was Holmes' care and the ever-approaching arrival of our child. I clung to these as the weeks passed and it grew more difficult to breathe, eat, walk, and sleep as the child grew and displaced or pressed upon my internal organs.

When I had eight weeks remaining, Mrs. Holloway gave strict instruction that I remain off my feet as much as possible, for my legs and feet had begun to swell rather alarmingly. I was only too happy to oblige, as I was out of breath far too often for comfort, and Holmes made it his duty to fetch anything I needed so I would not have to rise once I was settled in my chair or the settee.

Around this time I began experiencing false labor pains. Holmes had the privilege of feeling the first one along with me; I was lying in his embrace on the settee, his hands feeling the bumping of our child's kicking heels, when the sudden cramp shivered through me. Neither of us breathed for a moment, though the child continued to kick. "Now I understand what she meant," Holmes said finally. Mrs. Holloway had warned us that false labor pains might occur when we had seen her last, a most prescient warning.

While I sat around the flat with my feet up, I began organizing some of my notes in preparation for writing up a few more of Holmes' cases. I did not get much past the organizing stage, however, for I often felt restless and frequently rose to do a few rounds of the sitting room before returning to the desk or my chair. Holmes tried to dissuade me from this, as well as our evening rambles, on account of my feet and my breathing but I insisted for my sanity's sake. I did not tell him that I often grew dizzy when standing, since he would then absolutely insist that I remain inside and stationary, but I noted it for my next appointment with the midwife.

When I entered the examination room, Mrs. Holloway took one look at me and ordered me into a chair. A barrage of questions followed, and each of my answers caused the furrow in her brow to crease a little deeper. She listened to my heart and lungs--I could guess she would not be pleased by either, as my pulse was far too fast and my respirations shallow--and palpated my hands and face as well as my legs and feet.

"Complete bed rest, from the moment you return home until the child is born," she said at last, her expression grave. "I will come to you for the rest of your checkups, and they will be weekly."

"Is it truly that bad?" I asked. I had suspected that the degree of my difficulties indicated an underlying problem, but this is not my area of medicine.

"Only if it worsens," she said frankly. "The swelling in particular should abate with rest. You may rise to bathe periodically, but you should remain in bed otherwise. On your side may be most comfortable, but sitting with your feet elevated is also acceptable."

Holmes asked her some pointed questions that I do not remember, then he hurried me home, hovering protectively as I heaved myself up into the cab and then down again. I lingered in front of our door, taking a careful breath, and when Holmes tried to urge me forward, I snapped at him. I only wished to take a moment to enjoy the free air before beginning my confinement--I had never dreamed it would begin so soon or I would have spent more time outdoors--and once Holmes understood he allowed me to take as much time as I wished.

Mrs. Hudson clucked over me when Holmes explained the trouble as I laboriously climbed the stairs. She helped me settle in Holmes' bed while Holmes collected my papers and writing desk and brought them to me. I appreciated his thoughtfulness, but set them aside; I was quite tired and writing was not appealing. I curled up on my side and took a nap.

I napped frequently in the first days of my aptly-named bed rest. This often meant I was awake into the wee hours of the morning and Holmes' proclivity to keeping odd hours was a blessing. He would sit with me and we would talk about anything and everything, sometimes about our child and sometimes not. Sometimes he would read to me from the paper or recent correspondence. When my head hurt too much to have the gaslamp lit--headaches were apparently another symptom of my being unwell--Holmes would slide himself behind me, tucking his knees behind mine and slipping his arms around me, and press kisses to my neck.

By the end of my second week in bed, I was ready to be quite done with that nonsense and I had a new sympathy for Holmes' restlessness between cases. Truth be told, he was enduring our shut-in situation far better than I, though I too would have been in better spirits if I were allowed to be up and about. Against Holmes' wishes I occasionally stood beside the bed and walked around the room to exercise my languishing muscles. Once a day I took a trip to the bathroom; every three days or so I had a nice, long bath to help my aches.

The day after Mrs. Holloway's second visit to monitor my welfare, Holmes drew my bath before I even asked. It seemed rather early in the day, being only just after lunch, but my back had been particularly troublesome that morning and I figured that Holmes had noticed, as he always did.

He helped me into the tub, but as soon as I was settled, the bell rang and Mrs. Hudson called for him. I felt a keen disappointment when it became clear he would not be returning soon; I had hoped he'd lend a hand with my back. Instead, I heard the voices of strangers and a great noise as if something large was being moved. I could not fathom what was transpiring and longed to find out but I could not--between the slippery footing, my troubled balance, and the aches in my hips and back, I was unable to exit the tub without assistance.

Just as I resigned myself to bathing alone, Holmes came in to check on me. "What on earth is going on in there?" I asked peevishly.

He leaned over and kissed my forehead. "You will find out in due course, my dear fellow. Afterward, I will rub your back. Is that acceptable?"

"Yes," I grumbled good-naturedly.

He brushed a kiss across my lips. "I will return shortly to help you up."

"See that you do."

He was, of course, as good as his word and returned within ten minutes, just as the water was becoming noticeably cool. He seemed quite pleased with himself and hummed while he helped me dry off and dress in a clean nightshirt. Then he escorted me back to the bedroom, theatrically throwing open the door before ushering me inside.

I clutched Holmes' arm tightly as I stared in amazement at the large bed sitting proudly where Holmes' old bed had been. While the previous bed had been reasonably generous for a single person, two people had been quite a squeeze, especially now that I was pregnant.

This bed, however, was designed for two with room to spare, and the wardrobe and the bedside table had been shifted aside to accommodate the extra width. "That explains all the noise," I said, still stunned. "But why?"

"Now you can roll over without having to worry about falling off," Holmes said, patting my hand. "And I thought we could see if this will allow us to remain together and still get some rest at night. If we can sleep in the same bed, then we can use the room upstairs for the child."

"And if we still don't sleep well together?" I thought of Holmes' odd hours, but we would both be subject to the child's schedule for some time, so that didn't seem as much of an obstacle as it once did.

"We'll have to draw straws or alternate who sleeps here each night," Holmes said with a grin.

The bed was truly a marvel. I could settle down on my right side and roll over to my left without having to shift in place, which was a godsend for my poor back, and Holmes could be near without being pressed up tightly against me. As we lay on the bed, testing its size and softness, our gazes met and we came together in wordless agreement; the second activity performed in that bed was sleeping.

I fear the novelty of a new bed did not alleviate the restless boredom that chafed at me. I spent a good deal of time writing up the cases that I had notes sorted out for, but I quickly exhausted that supply. I fretted and fussed for several aimless days before Holmes pulled out some of his old files. He curled up with me on the bed while he told me those stories as well as things from his younger days that he'd never willingly spoken of before. I told my own stories in turn, and it quickly became clear to us both that our child was going to be mischievous youngster.

I passed two more weeks in this manner, and had only two more remaining before the expected arrival of our child. Mrs. Holloway was satisfied with my health and that of the child, for its growth was good and it shifted into the birthing position in a timely fashion.

I acutely felt the change as a fullness in my pelvis and an improved ability to breathe. What seemed odd in comparison to before was the fact that the babe was always kicking me in the same spot--since he or she was no longer moving about freely in my womb--and that one area of my ribs soon ached rather fiercely. Holmes was fascinated by the shift in my measurements as a result of the child's new location.

As the hours and the days passed, I began to grow nervous about the birth and all that having a child would entail. The false labor pains came with some regularity, to the point that there were moments when I wondered how I would know when I was truly in labor. Holmes tried to reassure me, but he was just as anxious--if not more so, for there was nothing he could do besides watch and wait.

He hid it well, but I could tell he was afraid, and being afraid made him irritable and snappish and prone to brooding. In short, it was rather like his behavior when he was bored with the added strain of apprehension about my wellbeing and that of our child.

Mrs. Holloway assured us at her next visit that all of this was quite normal, but reassurance only went so far. Holmes was more at ease for perhaps two hours before some worry lodged in his mind again and he stalked about the sitting room like a restless tiger.

I will confess it was a relief to see his interest piqued by a brief story in the morning paper that sounded like it would make a fascinating case. I saw his eyes drawn to it repeatedly, and even when he continued on to other pages he periodically flipped back and stared at it again. When I laughed at him, he looked offended. "Go, Holmes," I told him, waving him toward the door. "Go see what Lestrade has to say about that investigation."

To say his face lit up would be overstating things somewhat, but his pleasure was palpable. "Are you certain, Watson?"

"Very. Now go. You're driving me half-mad."

"Only half?" he asked with a grin as he kissed me briefly before climbing down from the bed. "I will wire if I need to stay out for long. Send word at once if anything changes and I will come as soon as I am able."

"Yes, of course," I assured him.

The first thing I did after his departure was take a nap. Sleep had been elusive for some weeks and only came a few hours at a time when it did come, and the quiet in his absence turned out to be ideal for reclaiming several hours of lost slumber.

The second thing I did was begin this narrative. I had been considering it for several days, thinking it would be nice to have an account--albeit a personal one, as this is never going into print--of my experiences while being with child. In retrospect, I should have kept a journal throughout, for there are periods where I am not certain precisely what transpired, and there may also be occasions where I have remembered things out of order.

Holmes has been in and out for his case for nearly four days. When he is away, I receive telegrams at precisely two-hour intervals assuring me of his safety and providing me with the nearest telegraph office should I need to send for him. When he returns home, his first question is always about my welfare, and only once I assure him that I am fine and experiencing any pains does he tell me the latest developments in the case.

He has been wholly away for nearly an entire day now, and I have a stack of telegrams here to prove it (Mrs. Hudson has been so very patient with having to trudge up and down our stairs so frequently!). A few telegrams ago Holmes promised that he will conclude his work today, most likely by tea time.

This is fortunate, for I have a nagging suspicion that I am in labor and have been for at least eight hours. The contractions are yet mild, though they have begun to increase in frequency and duration. It is now just after lunch--I could not eat and told Mrs. Hudson it was due to heartburn--so I can allow Holmes time enough to conclude his investigation. I will likely have to immediately send him out again to fetch Mrs. Holloway, but he will not mind.

 

I was able to sleep for a while and was woken by a cramping pain that was the worst I have felt yet. It stole my breath away and I clutched my abdomen, willing the child to wait just a little longer.

The pain has eased and I am feeling better for now, though I know there is more to come. Holmes is due at any moment.

There is his voice in the entryway, and his tread on the stair. Oh, another pain . . .

 

Holmes has gone to retrieve Mrs. Holloway. Once he ascertained that I was not, in fact, dying, despite how my moaning made it sound, he ran from the bedroom as if the very hounds of hell were on his heels. I believe it is prudent for me to set this aside for now.

 

 

Watson, as usual you give me far too much credit and give yourself far too little. You make it sound like you complained far more often than you actually did, though I am gratified that my awkward attempts at solace were suitable.

We do need to discuss the fact that you did not send for me at once as we had agreed, but that will wait until you've had your well-earned rest. I trust that some sleep will also enable you to see more clearly in regard to our son's name, as your objection to naming him John is most irregular. It's a good, strong name--and one I am rather partial to--and it will not cause him hardship at school.

And no matter what you claim, he resembles you far more than he resembles me, which is to his benefit, particularly as concerning his nose.

 

Really, Holmes, there is such a thing as a name that is too unremarkable. John is one such name, and it certainly would cause him hardship at school, for there is currently an excess of Johns in the world. I remain firm in my suggestion that, if we wish to choose a family name, we name him after one or both of our fathers.

Say what you will about his looks, you cannot see yourself with him curled against your shoulder--your expressions in sleep are nearly identical. I told you your concerns about handling him were unfounded. You're already a natural and he's not even a day old.


End file.
